


Toaster Troubles

by Anonymous



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 09:46:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1300486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Soldier was adamant that he didn’t break the toaster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toaster Troubles

**Author's Note:**

> The first part of this story was written by Maelgwyn; his original drabble can be read here: [Toast](http://pages.citebite.com/b7s2q0f6aosh) (SFW). The porn is all my fault.

The Soldier was adamant that he didn’t break the toaster. It was faulty un-American junk, he yelled. Had he been more elegant at disabling the white-good, I would had believed him. Instead I had a small, two-slot toaster disassembled on the workbench. The problem was that someone had pulled out the power cord, with enough force to break the connectors.  
  
I hammed it up, testing each element with a small jury-rigged multimeter. He appeared interested in my work, and not until his chin rested on my hardhat did I understand what was happening. This was a game he would play on occasion, and he thought that I hadn’t worked it out.  
  
I watched those gruff hands point at various parts, curt questions asked as the rough fabric of his coat brushed past my ear. I could almost close my eyes and imagine him, that powerful body prone, writhing under me as I had my dastardly way with him. I fantasised about this as I answered his questions, drawling on very specific syllables.  
  
The gulp was my queue. He would always gulp when he was starting to become more aroused. I grinned, explaining how the variable capacitor controlled the heating element when he did something rather unexpected.  
  
His hands slipped from view, the weight on my head shifted. I was concerned, maybe this time I had bored the man off, ruining my entertainment for the day. I yelped a little as those rough hands started to knead at my shoulders, the stubby fingers digging into the tight muscles. He whispered compliments into my ear, about how I deserved a medal, how much I was needed on the battlefield, about how Sun Tsu had written about the need for Engineers.  
  
I mumbled incoherently as those hands slipped lower, running up and down my spine, the chafed lips kissing the back of my neck. My hands shook as I tried to bolt the appliance together. I nearly impaled my hand when his hand slipped lower, squeezing the side of my buttock, the other snaking to the front of the overalls that hung loosely on my stocky frame. His head was resting on my shoulder as he tenderly kissed my jaw.  
  
—  
  
Some folks say I can be mule-stubborn when it suits me, and I reckon they ain’t far off. I certainly wasn’t going to let him win his dumb li’l game that easily. He broke the toaster; only way to teach that sly ole dog would be to make him wait until I fixed it before giving him what he wanted. I’d thought what he wanted was breakfast, seeing as that’s how he smashed the darn thing, but that hypothesis went right out the window when I felt him inch down my zipper.  
  
It’s not that I’m averse to that kinda attention, mind you, but there’s a time and a place for everything, and half an hour late for breakfast at my workbench ain’t either. I didn’t want to discourage him, though, not when it’d taken weeks of gentle coaxing to get him to do anything but lie down and let me work him over. I could tell he enjoyed it every time, even that awkward first when he hadn’t a clue and I was nervous as all heck myself, but the mental roadblocks from his years alone had kept him from reciprocating for so long. I wasn’t gonna ruin it now. I bit back my frustrations and focused on getting the job done so we could get out of there and get breakfast and get a cold shower or maybe get a few minutes alone in a bunk.  
  
Apparently, he disagreed. As preoccupied as I was with my work, focusing got mighty hard when I felt his strong fingers steal inside the narrow gap he’d made and stroke me through my boxers. He was still pressing kisses against my jaw and neck too, rubbing our unshaved stubble together, still whispering sweet nothings in my ear. _I’m proud of you, private_ , he told me, _you’re a valuable part of this unit, I couldn’t win this war without you_.  
  
There’s a trick to understanding him, decrypting the enigma machine in his head. I’ve always been a quick learner, and the code to him ain’t no different from the chalked formulas on my blueprints. But the tone of his voice, the way he pulled me close, added another dimension this time, something quite outside the purview of physics. I’d never call myself a romantic, but his admission made my heart skip a beat. It made something else throb too.  
  
He has a way of talking when it’s just the two of us and we’re naked. His lips were brushing the edge of my hardhat and I still had to hold my breath to hear him. _C’mere sweetheart_ , he whispered, barely more than a soft growl, and then he slipped me out, hard in his hand.  
  
I’ve seen him kill with those hands, choke the life right out of a Spy, but they’ve only ever been gentle on me. There’s a feeling of controlled strength when he touches me, restrained power. He trusts me on the battlefield, trusts my machines won’t let loose when he runs in front of them and they turn to track his movements, and I trust him when we’re like this. He’s the only lover I’ve had who outweighs me pound for pound, who can take me down in a wrestle. It’s taken some getting used to being what I always thought of as the _lady_ in this kinda relationship. Turns out height ain’t got nothing to do with it—not that I knew when I first asked him out, and I still did. Guess that says something about him, or about me, though you better not be saying it where either of us can hear you.  
  
I arched back into him, thrust into his tight fist. Christ, he knows how to get to me. He held me close to his chest, arms around me so I could feel the heat of him, supported me when my knees almost gave out from the tucking on my dick. And while I hate being the short guy, there’s something to be said for an embrace like that. I still wasn’t going to let him win, though. There’s such a thing as southern pride.  
  
So that’s how it happened that I was standing at my workbench, hands shaking, dropping tools, cursing and moaning and grinding my teeth like rebuilding that toaster was the goshdarn most exciting project I’d ever worked on, determined to finish before I finished, if you catch my drift. And I did too, sliding the last metal cover in place with a quiet moan and a quieter click, and then I was gripping the edge of the table so hard the gunslinger left square flat fingerprints in the wood. I ain’t proud of the ungodly language I used, bucking into Soldier’s grip and slicking his palm till his fingers were dripping, but in that moment I didn’t care. It was so intense for being drawn out that I don’t think I’d have remained standing if Soldier hadn’t been there behind me.  
  
“Got your—darn machine—done,” I panted when I was done too, leaning on him and looking up. He tipped back my hardhat with his free hand and kissed me upside down, teasing my mouth open, and that was nice in an entirely different way from the handjob. I hadn’t touched him once, but I could tell I’d managed to erect something in his pants even so, just by going off in his hand…  
  
“ _Yo hardhat!_ Ya seen the toaster?”  
  
…and, as always, Scout had impeccably bad timing. I was still frantically zipping up and attempting to look like I wasn’t when he stuck his head in through the workshop door.  
  
“Sure thing, son, got it right here. Needed a bit of fixin’, is all, but Ah’m done with it now,” I said, trying for casual. It’s harder than you’d think with your man standing too close and clutching a handful of your come in a fist behind his back.  
  
“Awright! Shit, I’m starvin’!” Scout grabbed the toaster off the workbench and made for the kitchen at a mad dash. It’s a bad habit of his to grab my stuff and run off with it, and I oughta have stopped him, asked him to hold up five more minutes while I checked over the white-good again just to show him off. But I wanted him out so I could get back to business. In hindsight I can tell that was a mistake.  
  
“Now then, where were we?” I asked Soldier, giving him a slow, wicked grin, the kind I know I get on my face when I find the solution to a complex calculation for increased sentry lethality. That always gets him going. “I reckon now it’s my t—”  
  
The explosion cut me off and made us drop flat. It’s a reflex we share. Soldier’s been living in war zones for years, and my time in the oilfields has taught me you don’t remain on your feet when something big goes off. Could be a well catching a stray spark, and then standing upright becomes the surest way to get a 1,000-degree burning-oil suntan or your head lopped off by shrapnel. We hit the deck almost before we heard the boom, and then we heard the yelling from the kitchen.  
  
“Bloody hell!”  
  
“Zut alors, I am on fire!”  
  
“Vas zhat… a flyink _toaster?_ ”  
  
“Da. Must be faulty American junk.”  
  
I’ll admit I might’ve been somewhat distracted while reassembling that toaster, but wires are wires. I can solder sentry circuitry in my sleep. I’m sure a toaster ain’t no challenge, not even with my mind on other matters. Still, maybe I oughta have paid a bit more attention to what my hands were doing and a little less to what Soldier’s had been.  
  
Soldier turned his head to look at me as we laid there in the dust, listening to the chaos outside. He stuck a thumb under the rim of his helmet to lift it just enough for proper eye contact, and the look he gave me was smug as all hell.  
  
Turned out he won that game of his after all.  
  
“Aw, _dagnabbit_.”


End file.
